"He is no boy! He is a Ranger!"
The other three Skandians moved forward at the blow, weapons ready. Morgarath didn't even have to speak. He turned those glittering eyes on them and twenty Wargals moved as well, a warning growl in their throats, clubs and iron spears ready.
Erak signaled for his men to settle. The red mark of Morgarath's blow flared on his cheek.
"You knew," Morgarath accused him. "You knew." Then realization dawned on him. "This is the one! Arrows, you said! My Wargals were hiding from arrows as the bridge burned! Ranger weapons! This is the swine who destroyed my bridge!" The voice rose to a shriek of fury as he spoke.
Will's throat was dry and his heart pounded with terror. He knew of Morgarath's legendary hatred for Rangers-all members of the Corps did. Ironically, it was Halt himself who had triggered that hatred when he led the surprise attack on Morgarath's army at Hackham Heath sixteen years previously.
Erak stood before the raging Black Lord and said nothing.
Will felt a small, warm hand creep into his: Evanlyn.
For a moment, he marveled at the girl's courage, to bond herself to him like this, in the face of Morgarath's implacable fury and hatred.
Then, another horse forced its way through the crowd. On its back was one of Morgarath's Wargal lieutenants, one of those who had learned basic human speech.
"My lord!" he called, in the peculiar, flat tones of all Wargals. "Enemy advancing."
Morgarath swung to face him and the Wargal continued.
"Their skirmish line moving toward us, my lord. Battle is beginning."
The Lord of Rain and Night came to a decision. He swung back into the saddle of his horse, his furious gaze now locked on Will, not Erak.
"We will finish this later," he said. Then he turned to a Wargal sergeant among those who had surrounded the Skandians.
"Hold these prisoners here until I return. On pain of your life."
30
accompanied by archers, advanced on Morgarath's left flank in a probing movement, retreating hastily when a battalion of heavy infantry formed up and moved forward to meet them.
The lightly armed skirmishers scampered back to the safety of their own lines, ahead of the slow-treading Wargals. Then, as a company of heavy cavalry trotted forward toward the Wargal battalion's left flank, the Wargals re-formed from their column-of-fours marching order into a slower-moving defensive square and withdrew to their own lines.
As in most battles, the first moves were inconclusive, and for the next few hours, that remained the pattern of the battle: small forces would probe the other side's defenses. Larger forces would offer to counter and the first attack would melt away. Arald, Fergus and Tyler sat their horses beside the King, on a small knoll in the center of the royal army. Battlemaster David was with a small group of knights making one of the many forays toward the Wargal army.
"All this to-ing and fro-ing is getting me down," Arald said sourly. The King smiled at him. He had one of the most important attributes of a good commander: almost unlimited patience.
"Morgarath is waiting," he said simply. "Waiting for Horth's army to show itself in our rear. Then he'll attack, have no doubt."
"Let's just get on with it ourselves," growled Fergus, but Duncan shook his head, pointing to the ground immediately to the front of Morgarath's position.
"The land there is soft and boggy," he said. "It would reduce the effectiveness of our best weapon-our cavalry. We'll wait till Morgarath comes to us. Then we can fight him on ground that's more to our liking."
There was an urgent clatter of hooves from the rear, and the royal party turned to watch a courier spurring his horse up the last slope to the knoll where they waited. He hauled on his reins, looked around until he saw the King's blond head, then dug in his spurs again, eventually bringing his horse to a sliding stop beside them. His green surcoat, light mail armor and thin-bladed sword showed him to be a scout.
"Your Majesty," he said breathlessly. "A report from Sir Vincent."
Vincent was the leader of the Messenger Corps, a group of soldiers who acted as the King's eyes and ears during a battle, carrying reports and orders to all parts of the battlefield. Duncan indicated that the man should go ahead and give his message.
The rider swallowed several times and looked anxiously at the King and his three barons. All at once, Arald knew this was not going to be good news.
"Sir," said the scout hesitantly. "Sir Vincent's respects, sir, and:there appear to be Skandians behind us."
There were startled exclamations from several of the junior officers surrounding the command group. Fergus swung on them, his brows drawn together in a frown.
"Be quiet!" he stormed and, in an instant, the noise dropped away. The aides looked shamefaced at their lack of discipline.
"Exactly where are these Skandians? And how many are there?" Duncan asked the scout calmly. His unruffled manner seemed to communicate itself to the messenger. This time, he answered with a lot more confidence.
"The first group is visible on the low ridge to the northwest, Your Majesty. As yet we can see only a hundred or so. Sir Vincent suggests that the best position for you to view the situation would be from the small hill to our left rear."
The King nodded and turned to one of the younger officers.
"Ranald, perhaps you might ride and advise Sir David of this new development. Tell him we are shifting the command post to the hill Sir Vincent suggested."
"Yes, my lord!" replied the young knight. He wheeled his horse and set off at a gallop. The King then turned to his companions.
"Gentlemen, let's see about these Skandians, shall we?"
Shading his eyes, Baron Arald peered at the small group of men on the hill behind them. Even at this distance, it was possible to make out the horned helmets and the huge circular shields that the sea raiders carried. A small group had even advanced down the near side of the hill and they were easier to make out.
Just as obvious was their choice of the typical Skandian arrowhead formation as they advanced. He estimated that several hundred of the enemy were now in sight, with who knew how many more hidden on the other side of the hills. He felt a great weight of sadness upon his shoulders. The fact that the Skandians were there meant only one thing: Halt had failed. And knowing Halt as he did, he knew that probably meant that the grizzled Ranger had died in the attempt. He knew Halt would never have surrendered-not when the need to stop the Skandians breaking through to the army's rear was so vital.
Duncan voiced the thoughts of all of them.
"They're Skandians, all right." He glanced around the hilltop. "We're going to have to fight a defensive battle, my lords," he continued. "I suggest we begin to pull our men into a circle around this hill. It's as good a spot as any to be fighting on both sides."
They all knew it was only a matter of time now before Morgarath advanced, to crush them between the two jaws of the trap he had set.
"Rider coming!" called one of the aides, pointing. They all turned to face the way he indicated. From a copse of trees at the right-hand end of the ridge, a lone rider burst into sight. Several of the Skandians gave chase, hurling spears and clubs after him. But he was stretched low over his horse's neck, his gray-green cloak streaming behind him in the wind, and he soon outdistanced the pursuit.
"That's Gilan," Baron Arald muttered, recognizing the bay horse he rode. He looked in vain for a second Ranger behind Gilan, hoping against hope that Halt might have somehow survived. But it was not to be. The Baron's shoulders sagged a little as he recalled the force that had marched off so boldly into the Thorntree Forest. Of all those men, it seemed that only Gilan had survived.